As The Mockingjay Flies
by Lunawerewolfy
Summary: Enjolras and Grantaire are two young men of the Capitol's highest. A Capitol recently fallen, and the Districts are looking for someone to appease their need for revenge, and, well, Enjolras and Grantaire are to be tributes.
1. Chapter 1, Unlucky for some

**A/N: I'll make this quick, This is a colab between me and my friend Courtney. It is set after the events of Mockingjay by Suzanne Collins, but before the epilogue of that book. It has (most?) of the Les Miserable characters, but they have been aged down because they need to be teens. There will also be some Hunger Games characters, although they will not be the focus. Yes, this is Slash, Enjolras and Grantaire. **

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The torture devices that had so terrified them before had now become just part of the landscape of slippery shadows on slippery walls. If they were trying to plant fear into the souls of the unworthy, they should have at least put a bit more effort into it, Grantaire mused. He was, in all honesty, _bored_.

He perfected the coin tricks with a penny he'd found attached to walls, he cracked a dark joke nobody felt at liberty to laugh at.

In his rare streak of honesty he admitted he wasn't really interested in this whole charade. Pointless, and over-the-top, it felt bitter and dull. This wasn't really like any of the other Hunger Games; even the Quarter Quell hasn't got anything on this ragtag revenge scheme. This was blunt, blunter than anything other Games; the aim wasn't to crush rebellions or beat the capitol's name into the breaking backs of the citizens. The aim was to simply and purely kill them. There would be no victor. There would be no hope to kindle and crush; no nothing. See, it was to give the fathers and mothers of the capitol's children a taste of their own medicine.

But it wasn't like his father was of importance, now he's gone and kicked the bucket. But the districts couldn't pick and choose; most of the capitol higher-ups didn't have time, or were too rich to bother with mere mortal's pastimes.

Grantaire hopes it will help them sleep easier.

The other "tributes" are a pretty pathetic bunch. About as much muscle as a skeleton. He wasn't much to talk, but why break the habit of a lifetime.

The light streams in as the doors open and a young man stumbles in, bleary-eyed and fragile. Tufts of blonde hair and wide blue eyes like a doe, the doors close and he is blind, fumbling with the side of the steel wall, trying to find something to hold onto.

"Hey," Grantaire tries, his voice craggy and raw. More time had passed than he'd thought. "Welcome to wannabe hell."

The guy scowls and continues trying to find something on the flat wall, but eventually slides down and sits. The other tributes make room. How quaint.

Blondie blinks and tries to focus on Grantaire. His eyes narrow and widen and his eyes seem to catch all possible light despite the unflattering gloom. His squinting was getting kind of annoying, but Grantaire just averted his eyes.

"Who are you?" Blond Curly-Wurly asks.

"Grantaire." Grantaire just sort-of assumed he was talking to him.

"Grantaire who?"

"Does it really matter?" Grantaire growled, sitting back against the wall and focussing his attention on the penny. It's really just a dark grey circle in the dark, but he acts as if it transfixes him.

"I'm Enjolras."

"Good for you."

Silence falls since Pretty-Boy seems to be the only one who actually wants to talk. Grantaire turns the coin over in his hands more times than he can count.

"Don't worry." Blondie says quite suddenly.

"Why would I worry? We're just going to die." Grantaire says. He can't help himself. This guy is just too happy for someone condemned to death.

"We're not though. We can survive this. We've survived so far, haven't we?"

Grantaire shrugged. "I survived this far by luck and luck alone."

"We're alive." The guy leans forward; and his mop half-obscures his face.

Grantaire cackles quietly. "If you can call this alive." He glares at the newbie. "Look around you, Blondie; Wake up and smell the burning. Everything that was isn't anymore. The Capitol, it—it's dead now. It's a broken, burning, _hell_. Everything—including us—is broken. You, me, your dad, and your family we're, they're all—"

It happens before Grantaire can even register movement. He is pinned against the wall, eye-to-eye, nose-to-nose with Enjolras, his glare magnified to fill his vision. Enjolras slaps his chest with the flat of his hand but the pain and shock barely register in his dazed mind.

"Not everything." Enjolras barks.

He slaps his chest again.

"Unbroken." He says, setting Grantaire back down.

Oh, loyalty feels a lot like love these days.

They were herded to the Training Facility; the bright glare of the overhead lights either burnt into their eyes or painted them in to the shadows. With a touch of originality this room was silver, instead of greying, and huge like an aircraft bunker.

Grantaire tried to hang back and observe, but the tributes all pushed him forward, clustering behind him like shy children. With a stab of pity, he realised most of them were. Enjolras didn't seem to mind addressing a crowd, he was practically beaming. He led them around the stations and guessed at what they were and how to use them properly. He had a lot of academic knowledge but practically all he was is clumsily determined.

Eventually the group managed to split up and fumble around trying to work on their own. Grantaire didn't see the point of training for only two days, but he found the rack of weapons as well as anyone else. He glanced over the sharp curves of metal and held a long wicked knife. It fell easily in his hands and the weigh was reassuring.

He turned and cast his eyes across the rafters. He noticed a man in the observation room, with pale hair and paler skin and milky blue eyes. Grantaire squinted at him, trying to place his feeling of familiarity with—ah. The Star-Crossed Lover from District Twelve, the other wing of the Mockingjay, had graced them with his presence.

Grantaire had an urge to bow, but resisted. He was curious, and took a few steps closer, until he was close enough to see the burns that cascaded across his features were he wasn't patched up. The man's gaze followed him with a sort of restless worry, bordering on fear.

Too little, too late, Mr. Mrs-Revolution.

He wasn't sure he'd even wanted it to happen, but he didn't stop it. His thumb pressed his little finger and he pressed his fingers against his lips. He raised three fingers, unflinchingly locking eyes and staring deep into his baby-blue eyes. His arm did not shake or move, it was if he was a marble statue.

The Star-Crossed Lover blinked first, zig-zagging away and closing the door quickly behind him.

Grantaire turned, and saw Enjolras staring at him. Grantaire grinned, but Enjolras looked with a mixture of disappointment and sadness, enough to chill even Grantaire's cold soul.

Grantaire opened his mouth to ask what he had done wrong, but the words didn't seem to want to more from the lump in his throat. The silence stretched on and Grantaire eventually closed his mouth. Enjolras, painfully slow and with frightening control, slowly, slowly, shook his head and turned to correct a young boy trying to make a fire.

Dinner was served, presumably only to stop them dying of hunger or thirst before the big event. Even though Grantaire could hear the muffled growls from the other tributes, they stared at the table in such an odd mixture of surprise and fear it was almost like the table had grown teeth and they were expecting the food to eat _them_.

But then again, the food on the table wasn't exactly what anyone here was expecting (except maybe Enjolras, who was digging in merrily); Shrivelled squirrels, dried-out bread, forest berries, skinny turkeys, and water. Grantaire was resigned to eating it more out of consumption of food rather than enjoying it, but the others only poked it experimentally after a while, like it was a bomb.

Grantaire got annoyed after awhile and aimed his knife at them. "Eat." He ordered, as gruffly sincere as ever, "Eat this or I'll eat you."

The tributes hesitated but a few of them started to pick bits and pieces from the table, and the rest crumbled under hunger and peer-pressure. Soon everyone was eating, sure, with grimaces, but eating none the less. Grantaire finds the jug with the wine, which entertains him quite liberally for the duration of the meal.

When the meal ends, the Grey Soldiers return to herd the people through the winding white labyrinth of hallways, but this time, from what Grantaire's fuzzy memory supplies, in a different direction to before. The reflected look of slight worry confirms this. Grantaire glances at Enjolras but he doesn't look worried.

Or, at least, no more worried than usual.


	2. Chapter 2, Now this one's true

Maybe it was the ticking of the relentless clock that sat like a fat mouse on the side-table, or maybe it was just the restlessness in the air, but _something_ definitely woke him. It wasn't that Grantaire wasn't used to sleeping in beds that seemed more to envelope than support you, good heavens no.

The hangover thundered through his head like a train, more or less deafening him and making him squint. He squinted about trying to work out what had happened, feeling a lot like a mole.

The shadows seemed almost smoky and the room was decidedly dark. He wasn't in the cells anymore, which his back certainly approved of; rather he was in one of the _real_ tribute's old rooms. More specifically the bedroom of the final District 9's girl. Whatever they had done to at least half of the real tribute's rooms had been deemed unsalvageable and they had been forced to share. With Enjolras no less.

When he finally spotted him, Enjolras was at the window. A large one, almost as if the builder having forgotten to build a wall and had to put a window in instead. The dim light of what could be the moon but most likely was a hovercraft, Enjolras's hair looked greyish white, his eyes an off-black, what he could see of them.

Grantaire cleared his throat. "Enjolras what are—"

"Adrien."

Grantaire squinted some more but it didn't seem to help it make sense. "I—uh?"

"My name is Adrien. Enjolras is my family's name."

"Uhuh." Grantaire tried to remember what he'd been asking. "Uh—um, what are you, doing?"

"Thinking?" Enjolras turns.

Enjolras is squinting. Grantaire manages to swallow down the slightly drunk girlish giggle and all he has to show for it is a wide grin. "Any thoughts of interest?"

Enjolras shrugs and looks back at the maybe-moon. "I was thinking about Panem. If we are anything to show for it, Panem is not changing. It is just... reversing itself."

"Ah." Grantaire says, trying to sound like he understands. Well, he _does_ understand, Panem is just as Grantaire always knew it was, he just doesn't understand the half-bitterness as if he has been sorely disappointed. Grantaire had only known the guy for a day and a half; if he's this easily disappointed all the time he really needed to loosen up.

Enjolras stares at the city in a sort of sullen silence, which is really getting on Grantaire's nerves. Oh come on, did the guy really think the districts aren't going to act like some wounded half-dead animal and given the chance at revenge, are instead going to rise above everything like some sort of saint? This guy really did put too much faith in people not to act like people.

"Hey," Grantaire croaked, sitting up and immediately regretting it. "I think that window doubles as a TV." The wave of nausea made him want to puke but all he really did was grimace.

Enjolras sighed and shook his head, crawling back under the covers of the bed they'd wheeled in.

Grantaire rolled his eyes. This guy's Holier-Than-Thou attitude... if the districts didn't kill him that would.

Breakfast, and it seemed as if the districts had run short on squirrels and had ended up serving them Capitol food; in both meanings of the phrase. For pretty much all of the tributes, this was heaven-sent. A little because it was a taste of home and familiar in this hellhole, but mainly because a lot of them had been sick on the squirrel and bread from yesterday. Grantaire had skipped being sick on squirrel in favour of being sick on cheap wine, a spectacle he intended to replicate, having gotten his hands on the wine jug again.

Only Enjolras didn't feel like eating. When pestered he said he didn't feel sick or ill, he just wasn't hungry. Grantaire suspected he had reached a divine state where food wasn't needed, but instead of feeling annoyed or bitter, he just felt exasperated with the tiniest trace of respect at Mr. Disappointment's devotion smearing into even his eating habits at a time like this.

Everyone ate a comfortable amount more than their full, still half afraid it might disappear on them, and they were led back to the Training Facilities for one last time before the exam at their chosen skill.

Alas, for a lot of people it seemed their chosen skill would be looking an awful lot like lost puppies trying to act like capable humans. Grantaire decided to wander around and try to make a few friends.

A young, calm man was carefully trying to settle a frightened teen with blonde sticky-up hair like a porcupine. The calm one's brow was creased slightly, but he had a comforting air about him as he quietened the porcupine kid, reassuring him it was only a burn and nothing to worry about.

"Hello." Grantaire said bluntly. The calm man glanced at him and smiled politely.

"Hi. You're... Gran... Gran something. Sorry." The calm man said.

"Grantaire." He paused and hesitated. "Actually, Grantaire's my family name. My name's Nicholas."

The calm man smiled distractedly. "Joly. Uh, I mean, my name's Joly, sorry—" He stopped the porcupine teenager from picking at the plaster. "Hey, Marius, it's fine, god, you're worse than me!" He half-teased, jabbing Marius in the ribs.

Marius looked a bit taken aback. He slunk off somewhat awkwardly.

"God, I keep forgetting he's not my brother." Joly said, shaking his head.

Grantaire frowned. "Are you... related?"

"Uh, no. Um, he reminds me a lot of, uh, my brother. I mean, when Combeferre was..." Joly sighed a deep, weathered and weary sigh that seemed to come from the depths of his very soul.

Grantaire shifted about on his feet. "What did—I mean, if you don't mind me asking—what, um, did he die from?"

Joly bowed his head into his hands and shook his head. He rubbed his eyes and breathed deeply. "Combeferre isn't, well, he's not, um, he's not dead yet."

Grantaire thought it best not to ask him any more questions, but couldn't think of anything else to say, so he backed down from the awkward silence, moving off to the rest of the room.

For such a big room there is little distraction from things that might actually help prolong his life, but he's reluctant to do that since he's done nothing but try to shorten it his entire existence.

He sighed and resigned to not being a pathetic numbskull and did something useful.

His chosen skill was nothing, it seemed at first. He took long looks around the room to avoid looking in the judging victor's faces. Poor Mr. Ms. Mockingjay was pacing with his hands knotted in what was left of his hair, done with shouting.

Grantaire needed to do _something._ He couldn't prove to them he was completely useless. But he didn't want to start something and fail.

He picked up the wood left from training. Not even meant to be there.

The paint. He tossed it about in his hands.

He wrote in the paint, silver against silver, invisible, but large enough to be seen.

The wood struck together. Sparks leapt and danced and he hoped to god the paint was flammable.

It caught.

WHERE ARE YOUR MORALS NOW

Morning reared its ugly head, and Grantaire was surprised that they were getting prepped for the interviews.

The last he'd heard the sole prep team that hadn't been picked off by the districts when they got bored of killing the capitol, was one man down due to mental trauma and the other two were reluctant-going-on-suicidal about the idea that they had to prep some more people to be sent off to the slaughter.

But either they'd taught the masses their skills or the masses had taught themselves, because here they were. Two big burly men and a big burly woman here to strip him and whip him into shape.

They looked at him distastefully, and the woman circled him with an air of someone told to make a wedding cake out of mud. Eventually they just shaved some stubble from his face and washed and tied what scraggily black hair they could into a pony tail and called it even.

The suit was nice, he'd give them that. Midnight blue-black awash with shimmering stars, long white puffy sleeves and black trousers. To their credit, he didn't remember a tribute wearing this one before, but it didn't mean this one wasn't one someone'd waltzed off to death in.

Grantaire stroked his smooth chin, looking in the mirror critically. He was better, even bordering very slightly on decent, but it seemed even the expertise of couldn't make him look anything like Enjolras. For one thing, his facial structure didn't make him look like a marble statue, so there you are.

Grantaire was politely but forcefully led down the corridor and into the wings of the stage. Enjolras was talking was a weathered and beaten-looking Caesar Flickerman.

Poor Flickerman's impeccable hair was threaded with grey and his eyes darted everywhere like a cornered animal. He suit was creased and his glaringly white teeth didn't have a time to shine expect for quick, nervous and forced grins.

He was, however; seemingly glad to have someone as chatty at Enjolras to talk to. The other tributes likely were scared witless and wide-eyed and desperately wanting someone to take the spotlight from them. It had only been two days past from when they had been reaped having never thought it possible they could have been.

Enjolras smiled a little hollowly and Grantaire blinked himself awake from the daze he'd been in as Apollo himself walked past him.

Enjolras looked... good. They'd managed to tame his somewhat curly hair into a soft braid, his eyes seemed shockingly clear. A deep red jacket and long puffy white sleeves to match Grantaire's and dark trousers adorned his already far-too-good-looking-to-live figure.

_Oh,_ shit_. _

Oh, _shit_, He thought, moving as if suspended like a marionette towards Caesar Flickerman. Oh, shittiest of shits.

He had a crush on Adrien Enjolras, a guy he'd known for two days whilst they whiled away their time moving towards an inevitable and brutal death.

_Seriously_.

Caesar asked him a question and he replied automatically, and nobody fell over in shock so it must have been the right or at least an acceptable answer.

Caesar struggles to keep the conversation going. He asks about the other tributes. Grantaire shrugs, and manages to keep a straight face, but he is extremely close to exploding.

How does one fuck up so _tremendously. _

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**_A/N: This is the end of my bit for now. The next chapter's Courntey's. Reviews would be p cool, thanks. _**


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